


Dirty, Bad, Wrong

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Bite Kink, F/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, secretive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 02:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: He dreams about it sometimes, the bite. His dreams are weird, these days, after the cuelebres and Amaru and all, and so he dreams the bite and dreams he’s his blood, and dreams he’s seeing through her eyes.One time, he’s pretty sure he feels her surprise, her slow smile to herself as she smiles and murmurs, “Seth.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> To Niamh - I hope you have a lovely Christmas.
> 
> I listened to [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12JqqH2ubr8) and [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KSOk0hTSyI) a lot while writing this.

It starts with the bite. 

It’s one bite, honestly. Giving Santanico blood so she can heal is a perfectly reasonable thing to do  _ shut up Richard. _

It all starts with the bite.

 

* * *

 

Here’s the thing: It hadn’t  _ hurt. _ Well. It  _ had _ but it  _ hadn’t.  _ Two huge fangs being buried in your bloodstream was going to hurt, always, but the actual drawing of blood…

It felt like a hickey. It felt like a hickey, and, regardless of the comments Richard might make about it, Seth  _ likes _ hickeys. It’s almost a shame he couldn’t leave one on Santanico-  _ Nope. _

That’s where he cuts off his thoughts, usually,  _ Nope, no, not going to think about your own brother’s ex like that. Nope.  _ Santanico-

_ “Call me Kisa,” she whispers one evening when they’re both sitting quietly in the cold of the desert. She’s languid like this, long eyelashes feathering over her cheekbones, dark lips slightly parted to enjoy the cool air. “Call me Kisa. Santanico was a name forced on me. La Diosa is a name given to me. Kisa is who I am.” _

-Kisa may be one of the most beautiful women alive but brothers don’t date their brother’s exes. It’s bad form.

(It’s also kinda creepy and as he relishes in telling Richard,  _ I’m not the creepy brother. That’s you. _ )

 

* * *

 

It starts with the bite.

Some of his blood flows through Sant- Kisa’s veins, keeps her alive, keeps her healed. Oh, it’s probably all gone now, he remembers, Richard lectured him about the lifespan of bloodcells once and he’s pretty sure they don’t live that long but, the idea is a nice one all the same. Kisa, powerful and beautiful and more clever than he thinks they really tend to give credit for, remains so, in part, because of his blood.

He dreams about it sometimes, the bite. His dreams are weird, these days, after the  _ cuelebres  _ and Amaru and all, and so he dreams the bite and dreams he’s his blood, and dreams he’s seeing through her eyes.

One time, he’s pretty sure he feels her surprise, her slow smile to herself as she smiles and murmurs, “ _ Seth.” _

 

* * *

 

_ I am not the creepy brother, _ Seth tells himself.  _ I am not, I am not. That Richard’s job. So’s the creepy dreams. _

He puts the dreams out of his mind until the next time they see Kisa and she smiles at him, the same slow way she’d smiled to herself in the dream.

 

* * *

 

“I should have guessed,” she says. “You are Richard’s brother, after all.”

They’re out on the stoop, beers in hand. Richie is off doing God knows what, probably casing a joint with Kate.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m not the creepy one.”

She frowns at him, smiling, teasing in a way she never would have a year ago. “Yes you are,” she says. “You and Richard both.” She takes a drink, dark lips around the bottle neck like sin. “But that is not what I meant. You are both … different, is what I meant. You can both see what is actually there, see more of the world.”

“Both psychic you mean,” he says, and laughs. “Yeah right. And you’re the Queen of Sheba.”

“No,” she says, lip curling. “I am  _ la Diosa _ , thanks to Carlito. That is much worse.”

 

* * *

 

She’s got a point.

 

* * *

 

They don’t mention these evenings to anyone else. It’s not a  _ secret _ , they’re not  _ ashamed _ … well, Kisa thinks. Seth may be. He is far too caught up in his own sets of rules to accept these slow changes without at least one great fit of denial.

She catches him looking at her though, when he thinks she won’t notice. She always notices though - she’s been under the gaze of hundreds, of thousands, she knows how it feels when someone looks at her.

_ Richard’s gaze is like Carlos’ - hungry and longing and given up to hopelessness all at once. Kate’s gaze is admiring, almost proud in an abstract way. Other’s gazes are possessive or proprietary, the Lords’ had been fearful of what she might do. Seth’s gaze is soft and trailing, careful as though he hasn’t the right and edged with the claws of anger that sense of inadequacy brings out. There’s admiration and longing there too and  _ **_respect_ ** _ , which gilds the claws of his gaze into something beautiful. _

So few truly respect her after all. Oh they might worship her or admire her or want her, but that’s but that’s all, mostly, a surface thing with no depth or understanding of depth. She is beautiful and that makes people want her. She is strong and that makes people admire her. Carlos had made her a goddess, again, so they worship her.

They all forget that she is clever, that she is capable, that she plotted and planned her own way out, found how to free herself, how to survive, how to feed without turning and won herself a kingdom - albeit a small one - of her own. They all forget, apart from Seth, that she too has limits and weaknesses, that she too can be hurt and has been hurt and knows how to say so and deal with it and come out the other side stronger.

Seth’s respect feels like the gold she was once clothed in, feels like warm sweet-salt blood welling up in the wake of the claws of his anger.

 

* * *

 

“You are more than you think,” she tells him one evening. Kate is off in town, Richard off talking to  _ cuelebras _ miles away and they’re alone.

“Am I?” he asks. 

“Well,” she amends, choosing to tease. “You are not Richard.”

 

* * *

 

He laughs at that. Sometimes there’s some extra layer to what she says, sometimes it’s teasing and sometimes what she says is plain, stripped bare by pain or loss or injury.

(That bareness is such stark contrast to her pride and strength. That contrast was how he knew to give her blood.)

 

* * *

 

It’s not that Seth doesn’t think about her like that - he does and they’re both quite aware of it. When she drags them along to clean out some scumbags preying on street kids Seth almost offers her blood before she says, “It’s a scratch.”

There is more to him that this he tells himself. He may want to let her feed again ( _ you kinky fuck, _ some part of his brain says), he may want to leave a mark on her skin just as her bitemark still marrs his arm.

But these are intrusive thoughts, one he doesn’t  _ need  _ when working jobs with Kate and Richie. They don’t crop up often, then, it’s  _ her -  _ Santanico, Kisa,  _ la Diosa _ whatever - that brings them forward.

Maybe she’s using her sip of his blood against him. Maybe he’s making excuses. Maybe she’s incredibly attractive and he’s only human, so really, does it matter? There’s more to him than this, damnit.

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure who moved first, later. He suspects it was Santanico -  _ Kisa  _ \- but he doesn’t  _ know. _ What he knows is the feeling of her lips pressing against his, the smooth skin of her hipbones under his hands.

_ “Seth,” _ she hisses when he breaks the kiss. Her eyes are snake-slitted but it’s almost entrancing. Is she doing it on purpose? Is she going to turn him?

“No venom,” she says, “If I bite you.”

He nods, and her teeth sink into his neck.

_ Dirty, bad, wrong _ , screams his mind but it feels so  _ good, _ the pain and the suction, warm-yet-cool, and  _ Dirtybadwrong _ and they are pressing together, pulling clothes off each other. Her lips detach from his neck and press to his again - he can taste his own blood and wonders, for a brief moment, if this is even sanitary. 

“Sant-,” he gasps, only to see a frown.

“Kisa,” she corrects.

When her lips return to his neck there are no teeth against his skin but it’s no less pleasurable.

 

* * *

 

They don’t tell Richard.

Kisa rules it: there is nothing to tell anyone because it is none of their business; but Seth feels cracks, thinks  _ Dirtybadwrong, _ thinks  _ brothers shouldn’t sleep with their brother’s exes. _

He still goes back to her.

 

* * *

 

It’s a dance of it, her teeth against his neck - once, his lips against her neck, biting and suckling, trying to leave a mark on skin that heals instantly because of his blood in her veins.

(Seth thinks: that shouldn’t be as erotic as it is.)

It is a dance of it and they keep coming back to it.

_ Dirty Bad Wrong, _ Seth’s mind says, but honestly she is incredibly attractive and the sex is incredibly good and he’s only human so he saves the guilt for later.

 

* * *

 

There’s a lot of guilt - or is it shame? The feeling crawls up from his gut, makes him glance at Richard when his brother won’t notice, somehow fearful of him finding out.

It doesn’t stop him going back to her.

 

* * *

 

_ Santanikisa _ he takes to calling her in his thoughts. Sometimes he dreams about the bites, dreams his blood in her veins, dreams whatever she’s seeing.

Sometimes he dreams Richard finding out, calling him a traitor and a hypocrite and a kinky screwed up bastard and  _ maybe I am those things, _ he thinks, in the dark of the night.

Dirty and Bad and Wrong are in his mind each time she bites him and  _ maybe it is, _ he thinks,  _ but I like it, fuck you. _

“You are more than you think,” Santanikisa whispers against his chest. She’s curled on top of him, her legs still tucked against his side where she’s straddling his hips. “You don’t need to be so afraid of this, of your brother.”

His fingertips touch her cheek, trail to the corner of her mouth where there’s a trickle of his blood. “Who says I am?”

She could say “Your blood” or “Your eyes” and he’d have to concede but she doesn’t. She pushes herself upright, sits atop him like he’s a throne. 

“Oh, Seth,” she says, shifting her hips and making him groan. “Who says you aren’t?”

 

* * *

 

They still don’t tell Richard.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments!


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